


The Case of the Curious Obituaries

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Baker Street, Drama, Gen, Mystery, Newspapers, Original Character(s), Psychological Drama, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each morning Mrs. Eade finds her own name listed in The Daily Telegraph’s obituaries and each morning she has “died” in a new, gruesome manner. Terrified by these strange writings, she turns to the world’s only consulting detective to determine whether they are figments of her imagination or the beginnings of a more sinister plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Curious Obituaries

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, everyone! It’s been a while since I wrote any Sherlock -- canon, Granada, BBC, or otherwise. It’s actually still been a while since I technically wrote this a few months back and only recently got around to revising it. This has been my first attempt at writing a mystery and likewise my first attempt at writing a “true” Sherlock Holmes story in the style of Sir Conan Doyle himself. Needless to say... it was hard. Really hard. Like, coming up with mysteries is ridiculously hard. But I tried. So be kind... yeah? :D 
> 
> And as always, enjoy!

It was a warm day in August of 1889 when I called upon my good friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I had hoped to pay him my compliments on his recently published monograph, a tomb of an article detailing the different types of walking sticks and their usefulness when employed properly in a fight. Additionally, were I to be quite honest with myself, I also hoped to gently rib Holmes on the lack of success this latest composition had obtained amongst the general public. However much Holmes may disapprove of the adventurous and often sensational way in which I tell our tales, he cannot deny that my ‘romantic scribbles,’ as he so often terms them, have gained the public’s attention in such an extraordinary manner while his own works, sadly, have not. 

However, our day of friendly contention was not to be. No sooner had I greeted Mrs. Hudson and made my way up the seventeen steps then I was accosted by a shout from Holmes, followed closely by a loud crash that originated from behind our sitting room door. Startled, I entered without hesitation to find a young lady lying prone across the carpet and my friend crouched down beside her. His nervous hands fluttered between her wrist and neck, checking for a pulse. 

“Good heavens, Holmes!” 

Gently pushing him aside I took a closer look. She didn’t seem to be wounded in any manner; merely unconscious. No doubt, given her pallid complexion and her proximity to the world’s only consulting detective, she had fainted due to some combination of exhaustion and shock. 

“Get the brandy,” I instructed. Holmes did so, pouring, I noted, a bit for himself as well. By the time he’d collected three glasses I had moved our guest to the settee; not a difficult task given that she was a mere wisp of a girl. 

Handing me a glass Holmes eyed our visitor. “You have developed the art of flawless timing, Doctor. I dislike associating with damsels in the best of times and certainly not when they decide to faint across my parlor floor.” 

“Indeed, Holmes, what happened?” 

He shrugged, rolling his glass between his palms. “Exactly what one might expect from any woman under stress, Watson. She forced her way in, cried something unintelligible, and then promptly collapsed. I had only just reached her side before you made your timely appearance.” 

Bending down he placed his glass to the side and picked up a bit of shattered china. It looked to be the remains of a teacup, specifically one that belonged to a lovely seven-piece set of Mrs. Hudson’s. No doubt we would bear the brunt of her ire at a later date. 

“I take it she hit the table on her way down?” I asked, bending to help. 

For just a moment a smirk played across Holmes’s lips, before he readopted his solemn, customary expression. “I do believe Watson, that even your powers of deduction must allow such a deduction.” 

It should be known that I did indeed have an admirable retort prepared, one that I had every intention of employing, but at that moment our guest began to stir. 

I was at her side immediately as she tossed upon the settee. Gently, I raised her up and allowed the brandy to do its work, leading her back to consciousness. In just a moment’s time I was graced with the good fortune to gaze upon the most startling shade of aqua-green eyes I had ever seen. With the crisis seemingly passed, I took the time to catalogue her otherwise plain appearance and could find nothing as singular or worthy of mentioning as those eyes. 

Holmes, it should be stressed, showed no more interest in this young lady than he had any other, with perhaps the exception of the late Irene Adler. Leaving me to tend to the girl he seated himself in his armchair, drew his legs to his chest, and proceeded to pierce us both with the most marked and detailed of stares. It took some minutes before the girl had fully regained her senses and only then did Holmes design to speak. 

“My dear, you are quite fortunate that my friend and colleague Dr. Watson is such an excellent physician. However, despite his presence, I would not encourage any further spectacles on your part. That is, if you are capable of refraining. Refusing food and then walking over three miles in this heat certainly takes its toll, does it not?” 

Our client gave a brief jerk and finally lifted her gaze, first to Holmes and then myself. It seemed that my friend’s talent for unearthing a person’s inner thoughts did more for reviving the spirit than my prescription of rest and brandy. 

“Mr. Holmes,” she began, “How ever did you know- ” I gently patted her arm to stop her.

“You fainted.” I said. “It is certainly possible that it could have been caused by any number of factors, including the heat and your own terror at whatever predicament you have found yourself in, but it is more likely that you have not been eating properly. Your clothes are a tad too heavy for this nice weather – you’re feeling cold, are you not? – and there are physical signs as well: loss of color in the cheeks, a slight thinning of the hair, and,” I said with some triumph, “your nails are quite brittle.” 

“Excellent, Watson!” Holmes exclaimed. “Truly excellent! You are coming along splendidly. And how did I know of her three mile trek?”

“I am afraid that there you have stumped me, Holmes.”

“Tut tut. It is her boots.” He said, nodding vigorously. “The bottoms and sides are caked with mud. The lack of flaking around the edges tells us that this mud is still fresh and had you taken a hansom your boots would not be dirty at all. Obviously then you have walked a great distance within the last few hours. The exact distance can be divined from the amount of mud on your boots. It rained only briefly this morning and since then the heat has dried the streets considerably. You would have needed to start your journey while it was still raining in order to accumulate that much dirt and slush. The summer shower occurred little more than an hour ago and the average distance a person covers while leisurely strolling is three miles per each hour. Therefore, you have covered at least three, perhaps four miles; if you are a brisk walker that it. Now, is all that accurate?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. Your accuracy is indeed astounding.” She spoke in a soft, raspy voice that was filled with something approaching awe for my friend. “You certify every wonderful thing that I have heard about you and more. Surely you, you of all people are capable of helping me!” It was as if her terror had lent her strength for her voice suddenly gained volume and she threw her upper body upon her knees in a desperate attempt to get closer to her perceived savior. 

Holmes instantly held up a hand for silence. “My dear, please calm yourself. I cannot help you if you insist upon acting in such a disgraceful manner. You must collect your thoughts and tell me all. Omit nothing.” 

I have mentioned before that Holmes was not a man who often embraced the softer emotions and thus comforting our more distressed clients was my professed area of expertise. “Perhaps,” I said softly, “you could simply begin by giving us your name?”

“Oh! Yes! How thoughtless of me. I am Mrs. Abigail Eade.”

“ I see. And what is your reason for consulting me, Mrs. Eade?”

“I… Well you must understand that I make no accusations but… I do have reason to believe that I am targeted for murder.” 

“And what has lead you to this conclusion?” Holmes asked, clearly unfazed by the admission. 

“The obituaries!” She cried at once, wringing her hands. I was astounded by the violence of her reaction, that this commonplace creature, so timid one moment, could express herself in so wild a manner.

“The obituaries?” I asked.

“Yes, Doctor. Each morning, every morning, they pronounce my death in the most gruesome manner. Mr. Holmes,” she turned to him, face pinched with horror, “oh, Mr. Holmes, t is dreadful! I have heard that you find logic where there is seemingly none and produce miracles from your inferences. Can you not do the same for me? Please say you can!” 

I listened to this strange announcement with growing unease but Holmes merely rested back in his chair, waving for her to continue. She did so, taking only a moment for breath.   
“Nine days ago,” she began, “on the sixteenth of August, I was pursuing The Daily Telegraph when a certain obituary caught my eye. You must understand, I do not normally make a habit of reading such disheartening words, it is mere luck that I glanced through them. Well, you can only imagine my shock when I saw that one of the names listed there was my own! At first I believed it to be some amazing coincidence but the next morning I looked out again of curiosity and there was another. And still another after that! For days, Mr. Holmes!” 

“What exactly did this obituary say, Mrs. Eade?” 

“Just a moment.” Here she delicately slipped off her glove and produced a folded paper from within. It was not the newspaper itself but a small note that bore the distinct dips and flourishes of a woman’s handwriting. While she worked to un-crease the paper I noted that her hands were still trembling despite the heat of the day and my continued attempts to soothe her. 

“ I wrote it down you see. At the time I had thought it worth saving.” 

“How prudent of you.” Holmes said.

“Oh no, I did not think it of any importance.” She smiled for the first time since making our acquaintance and for just a moment I glimpsed the woman she must have been when not weighted by such fear. “I only imagined the amusement it might bring, showing it to friends and laughing at such a remarkable coincidence. But now… well, here you are.” She handed the paper to me and I read the following aloud: 

In her twenty-fourth year, Mrs. EADE formerly KELLNER, Honorary Secretary of the Governesses’ Benevolent Institution. Passed in her sleep the 15th of August, 1889. 

“Give it here, Watson. The Governess’ Benevolent Institution… This is accurate? Have you been with them long?” Holmes asked. 

“Only a few months now.” 

“I see. Continue if you would.” 

“But that is just it, Mr. Holmes!” Her voice broke sharply with terror and then just as suddenly dropped back to its customary whisper. “I do not know if I can continue. Everything has become difficult in light of these obscene jokes – if jokes they are. I have not eaten in days. I fear to sleep. My husband worries for my very sanity and sometimes I too question myself. I question the very world around me, things that should be tangible and within my grasp. My mind is now filled with such sinister thoughts that I often to not know what is real and what is imagined. It scares me most to death.” 

Holmes and I shared the briefest of glances and I was relieved to see that he too was taking careful note of our client’s rapid mood swings. She looked as if she might faint again, despite my efforts to preserve her.

“You speak of holding things in your hands.” Holmes said gently. “Things that may or may not exist. You mean the obituaries?” 

“Yes,” she whispered. 

“I take it then that others have not seen them? You have not shown them to your husband?” 

“I have tried! I copied the first out of fancy only, but the others I was unable to retain. The newspapers disappear from the table the moment I leave the room. Any clippings I take also vanish. I have questioned the household staff but they seem to know nothing.”

“Everybody lies, Mrs. Eade, the household staff is no exception. Have they been the ones presenting you with the morning paper?”

“Martha, our maid, always has it laid out with my tea. But I have already thought this through, Mr. Holmes, despite my hesitance to suspect her of such an awful deed. Just two days ago I left the house earlier than is my habit and picked up a paper on my way to the florist. It too held an obituary, so I naturally slipped it into my handbag for safekeeping. But by the time I returned home, it was gone! I have been the only one to see these papers. It is as if they exist solely in my mind.” 

“Oh no, I doubt that.” Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “Take note, Watson, it is clear someone does not want an outside party gaining access to these papers. Perhaps they fear the input of someone like myself. However! Mrs. Eade, you say there have been other obituaries?” 

“Yes,” she said. The young lady closed her eyes and breathed deeply, as if gathering herself. “There have indeed been others. Nine in all. They are identical in form to one another: my name, age, employment, and the date of my passing. The only thing that changes is how I am to die.”

Holmes clapped his hands in interest. “And these deaths, what are they?” 

“While sleeping – as you have just read – sickness, an overturned hansom, gas, the bite of an animal, childbirth, drowning, fire, and… murder.” Mrs. Eade gripped her one glove, wringing it between her hands. 

“Each of them becomes progressively more menacing.” I observed, handing her a new drink. 

“Indeed, Watson and the ninth one ends in bloodshed.”

“Yes!” she cried. “That is my point exactly.” 

An uneasy silence settled over the flat.

“Mrs. Eade,” Holmes announced,“are you aware of any one who would wish to do you harm?”

“Oh no.” 

“You are sure? No one within your governess’ institution? Or perhaps some associate of your husbands? What did you say his profession was?” 

“I did not. Richard works as a book dealer. He owns The Scholar Ship on Garnett Road.” 

“Ah!” I brightened, reveling for once in knowing more about a subject than my esteemed companion. “It is selective, is it not? If I recall correctly I once purchased some thrilling nautical tales while on my way home from a consultation. A most admirable gain.” 

“I see.” Holmes drawled. I knew, however, that Holmes did not, in fact, see, as he had never shown the slightest interest in my preferred reading material. Still, he chose to keep his opinions to himself, for which I was grateful. 

“Although, I admit I cannot see,” he continued, “how a book dealer might gain such a nemesis.” 

“Indeed, Mr. Holmes. I can think of no one – no one! - who would wish to do us harm.” She shook her head wildly. Clearly our brief humor had been lost on her. 

“Do you not think that I have tried to make sense of it all? Do you not think that I have plundered my mind for some debt, some small grievance that might explain this monster’s atrocity? I live in fear, Mr. Holmes. A numbing fear that grows out of the uncertainty of one’s own continued existence. I fear for my life!” 

The poor girl gripped her dress firmly, almost rocking with the anxiety of her situation. The case itself was a muddled one but the effect upon her was clear. Rarely, either as a gentleman or as a medical professional, had I witnessed such extreme distress in one so young. She was lovely of figure and agreeably soft spoken, yet at times she cast away her upbringing in favor of a more uncivilized, deranged manner. She seemed a specter, capable of passing between two worlds: one in which she upheld her mental prowess with dignity, the other in which she stood precariously over some ever-thinning edge. All of this, over what could possibly be a mere trifle. I said as much aloud. 

“Oh no, Watson.” Holmes replied. “There is indeed something sinister lurking beneath this obscene tomfoolery, and we will be the ones to out it!” Jumping from his chair he approached Mrs. Eade and gently took her trembling hands within his own. “Now, child, there is nothing more to be gained here. You much return to your husband and think no more on this. However, should anything else arise, including another obituary, you must alert me at once. At once! Understand?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Holmes! You believe you can help me?” 

“Undoubtedly. Now, Watson will show you out.” 

I had led her to the door, carefully in knowledge of her fragile condition, when Holmes’ voice rang out. 

“Mrs. Eade! A moment more if you would: these types of deaths, can you think of no reason why they specifically were chosen? Do any perhaps hold significance for you?”

All at once I could feel the weight of the child – not much admittedly – as she sagged upon my arm. “Yes, Mr. Holmes. The seventh obituary is indeed relevant. Three years ago I almost passed in childbirth.”

“And the baby?” he asked. 

She would not, or perhaps could not, answer. When he realized that no reply was forthcoming Holmes waved her away. Gently, terrified that she might break any moment beneath my hands, I led our guest down the steps and out the door. 

***

When I returned from fetching her a cab -- no easy task, as only Mrs. Eade’s exhaustion coached her through the door -- I found Holmes thrown horizontally across his chair with an unlit pipe between his teeth and a matchstick twirling between his fingers. As I entered he playfully flicked the match in my direction before remembering himself and leveling me with a most serious gaze. 

“What do you make of it, Watson? A strange affair to be sure, but perhaps we can shed some light on it, hmm?” 

I too settled myself and gathered my thoughts. I had learned over the years to edit and organize my opinions before presenting them to my friend. 

“I’m afraid, old man, that this might be a case better suited for me than you.” 

“Indeed! And what makes you say that?” 

“Surely you did not miss her extreme behavior? 

“Certainly not.”

“Then you can understand by concern. This girl needs a doctor more than she needs the world’s sole consulting detective.” 

“Ah, Watson!” Holmes waved his hand reproachfully in my direction but his chuckle assured me he was not truly upset. “For years I have cautioned you to view problems in a more logical light but I should have realized long ago that your physician’s instincts would outweigh any attempts at an objective analysis. What is your reasoning for assuming she needs your area of expertise as opposed to my own?”

“Well it is obvious.” I said. “Her rapid and seemingly arbitrary changes in mood. Her inability to give a coherent account of the events. She was trembling violently for most of the visit. She even fainted, Holmes! And of course, this does not take into account her fanciful story of terrible obituaries that only she has seen. The girl is mentally disturbed. Even you cannot deny that she is in need of assistance.”

“I have denied nothing of the sort. But you have yet to answer my question. What makes you believe her problems do not stem from a criminal source?”

I shrugged. “What makes you believe they have?”

“This!” He held up the note that our client had provided, the one with the obituary’s facsimile. “We can assume that Mrs. Eade copied this exactly. After all, she said herself that she wished to quote the strange printing to her acquaintances.”

“Yes, I recall her mentioning as much.” 

“Then it reasons that we should look to this note for clues, lacking as we are the original newspaper. Do you notice anything significant?”

I took the paper from him and studied it carefully. “It certainly reads like a proper obituary.” 

“Good! Obituaries are written in a distinct and exacting manner. Had these notes been a mere figment of her imagination would you expect her to be capable of writing one that read as authentic?”

“I suppose not.” I admitted. 

“Indeed. Let us assume for now that the girl is targeted for some malicious intent. With that in mind there is still more that we can learn from this scrap of paper.”

“And that would be?”

Sitting up he peered over my arm and pointed to the text. “She says that she read these in The Daily Telegraph. You notice the order of information, with her age first and her name following after?”

“But of course.” 

“Then keep that point in mind as you search the red box – yes that one – on the top shelf. I have taken the liberty of saving newspapers that contain some of London’s more interesting criminal enterprises. There should be plenty of Daily Telegraphs to choose from.”

I lowered the box, carefully removing the thick layer of dust with my handkerchief. After a moment I handed a stack of papers to Holmes. 

“Let us see, let us see… The Illustrated London News, The Graphic, The Pall Mall Gazette – Ah! Here we are, The Daily Telegraph.” He flipped to the obituaries and handed the paper back to me. “Read aloud the first name if you would.” 

“Mr. James H. Hite, in his eighty-second year after thirty-eight years service to the crown. Passed in his sleep, the 2nd of December, 1881.” 

“And what difference do you notice between this printing and our client’s?”

“Why, the name and age of the deceased have been reversed,” I said. 

“Yes!” All at once Holmes leapt from his chair and threw the papers behind him, scattering them in all directions. “Our culprit is sly, no doubt of that. He was careful to word the obituaries properly and the papers themselves must look authentic. However! It is clear that they are fakes.”

“Fakes!” I repeated, amazed. 

“Yes, Watson. As you have just observed The Daily Telegraph has a specific order in which it prints information and I have never known it to deviate. I assure you that if we were to head down to the printers right now and showed them this note they would deny having ever published such a thing. And they would be right! Whoever created these fictitious papers was not a member of the Telegraph’s staff. Come, Watson!”

“But Holmes,” I said we rushed down the stairs. “if there is no reason to speak with the publisher then who are we going to see?”

He stopped by the front door, donning his hat and grasping his silver topped walking stick. “Why, we’re heading to The Scholar Ship. I fancy a talk with Mr. Eade, don’t you?” 

***

It was late afternoon by the time our hansom pulled up along Garnett Road and deposited us outside The Scholar Ship. The bookstore was just as I’d remembered: a surprisingly large building that housed little more than two tables, a stool stacked with papers, and its merchandise. The yellow backed novels the shop specialized in lined the walls on both sides in a daunting display of abundance. I could not help but wonder if the books upon the top shelf ever felt a sense of despondence. They were, after all, the ones farthest out of reach and thus were the least likely to be handled and potentially purchased. Of course, I knew very well that inanimate objects felt nothing of the sort, yet I enjoyed indulging in the occasional, fanciful thought. I often wished, in my more cruel moments, that Holmes’ character allowed me to share such ideas with him, without risk of ridicule. 

Yet my friend was as practical as ever, ignoring the shop’s goods and heading straight for a man standing at the end of the far table. Given his youthful appearance, wedding band, and the ledger that distinguished him as the owner, it didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to recognize Mr. Eade. 

Although, it was a surprise for him to recognize us.

“Mr. Holmes!” The ledger fell to the table and after a brief hesitation he was across the floor, walking around us both before vigorously shaking our hands. “Why, this is an honor, sir! I never expected to find you here, in my humble shop.”

Holmes accepted the handshake but cocked his head to one side, reminding me of a bloodhound who’s caught a scent. “You know me, sir?” he asked. 

“Oh yes, I’ve read all of Dr. Watson’s stories with great enthusiasm.” Here he nodded in my direction. “This is truly an honor!”

“So you’ve said.” Holmes drawled. Mr. Eade seemed to take no note of my friend’s lack of social grace but I winced nevertheless. 

“Perhaps then,” I broke in on his behalf, “you will be pleased to know that your wife chose to consult us this morning in regards to a little problem.”

At once the man tightened like a wire and then just as quickly relaxed, shaking his head. Grasping both our elbows he lead us into a far corner, away from the other costumers.   
“I am so very sorry to hear that. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I do hope Abigail didn’t take up too much of your time.” 

One eyebrow lifted as Holmes regarded our companion, his eyes jumping from his hands, to his boots, to his cuffs. “Not in the least, sir. I find myself fascinated by those grotesque mysteries that surround us and your wife’s was certainly of interest. Are you aware that she has been receiving disturbing messages in the morning paper?”

“She believes she is receiving them Mr. Holmes.” He shook his head again, lank hair slapping across his cheek. “I’m afraid that my Abigail has always been… fragile, but ever since the death of our first child…” 

“It is a tragedy few can comprehend.” I murmured. 

“Yes, Dr. Watson, I’m afraid so. Abigail very nearly lost her life as well and every since then she has become… skittish about the most commonplace of things. We once had a terrier, a lovely dog, but she insisted on getting rid of him because his barks and growls suddenly frightened her. She will see no strangers, very seldom leaves the house, I cannot even get her to ride in a hansom as she claims they are too quick and dangerous!”

This, at least, explained why our client walked three miles to reach us. 

“Have you consulted anyone regarding her change in behavior?” I asked. 

“Oh yes, Doctor. We’ve been to a handful of physicians and they’ve all provided their own remedies, none of which seem to be concrete solutions: bed rest, fresh air, a stable environment, supportive family and friends… I have done what I can for her but I am becoming convinced that she simply allows her imagination too much free reign.” He shrugged. “I assure you, these obituaries she claims to have seen are pure fancy, Mr. Holmes.”

My friend opened his mouth to speak but all at once there was series of loud crashes to our left alongside a child’s exclamation. We turned to see a young boy, surely no older than ten, standing beside a pile of dropped books. Despite the glare Mr. Eade was sending his way, the boy’s own gaze was locked firmly on Holmes. Noticing his brown eyes and his equally dark brown hair, I was under the impression that I had seen him somewhere before. 

“Ashby! Are you in the habit of deliberately damaging my wares?” Mr. Eade voice took on an inflection more menacing than I would have originally given him credit for. 

“N-no, sir. Beggin’ your pardon, sir.” The spell broken, the boy dropped to his knees and hurriedly began stacking the books. I noticed though that he continually threw Holmes what he must have thought were stealthy glances.

“A mere bout of clumsiness, Mr. Eade.” he said. “Common among boys his age, you shouldn’t be too hard on him.” 

Our host gave a strained smile. “Of course, Mr. Holmes, of course. I mean him no ill will. I simply find myself on edge these days, what with Abby and all…”

Holmes waved his had, dismissing the topic. 

“I am sure you are right Mr. Eade. You do, after all, know your wife best, and I have never put much stock in the mental prowess of women. I am terribly sorry for wasting your time.”  
“Not at all, Mr. Holmes! I-”

But he was already striding out the door, nodding to Mr. Eade and signaling to me. 

“Come along, Watson.” 

***

We had walked almost a block before Holmes spoke. 

“A most sinister man, Watson. You would do well to cease associating with his establishment.”

I was struck dumb, thinking back to Mr. Eade’s polite but overly enthusiastic greeting.

“Surely you are mistaken, Holmes!” I said. “Do you mean to say that you suspect her husband of playing such a foul trick?”

“I do not suspect, Watson, I know, and furthermore those obituaries are no mere trick.” He swung his cane and then struck it suddenly upon the pavement in agitation. “Although I admit that I do not yet know why he would send such a thing to Mrs. Eade. Does he merely wish to frighten her? If so then to what purpose? Just to see her distressed? But no, he is dangerous yes, but not malicious for its own sake. He has a reason for his actions. But what?”

I shook my head, trying to merge the image of a mild mannered shop owner with the manipulative devil Holmes was describing. 

“What makes you believe he is involved? Although suspicious of the existence of these obituaries – which he has every right to be – he seemed quite willing to help his wife in any way neces-”

“An act, Watson, an act!” Holmes cut me off sharply. “Surely even you must have noticed his hesitation when we first came in! I give the man credit for a quick recovery but he was obviously not only surprised to see us but quite distraught as well, more so than would be expected of a man embarrassed by his wife’s antics. Did you not notice how dark that store was?”

“Yes…” I said slowly. “But I do not see-”

“The light! The main source of illumination came from the entrance and the two windows beside it. Do you recall how he circled around us? A strange action, wouldn’t you say? Mr. Eade was careful to place himself with his back to the door, limiting the light with which I had to study his face. He did not wish for me to gain too much from his expressions.” 

“Very well. But that is hardly conclusive. What evidence do you have that he is the perpetrator?”

Holmes slid his gaze my way and clucked his tongue in an almost motherly fashion. “Tut tut, Watson! I cannot begin to express to you the importance of a man’s trousers, his cuffs, and the state of his hair. Take, for example, the ink upon his shirtsleeves, and it was fresh mind! Both cuffs were speckled in a most peculiar manner. Now why would that be, hmm?” 

“Holmes this is really too much! The man works with the written word day in and day out. He keeps a ledger. Of course he comes into contact with ink!”

“Yes, Watson but with what hand did he shake yours?”

I paused at this seemingly non sequitur. “Why, his right of course.”

“Exactly, Watson. The man is right handed and yet there was also ink upon his left sleeve. I have observed you writing on countless occasions and whenever you become particularly involved in your work you have the regrettable tendency to press your arm against what you have already written as you continue writing. Any ink that accumulates is on your right sleeve, your dominant side and thus the one closest to the paper, while your left sleeve remains unblemished as you rest your hand solidly against your chin.

“How then did so much ink come to be on both arms and in a dotted as opposed to a sweeping design? Why, perhaps if he had been manually inking a printing press to, say, falsify a Daily Telegraph…” Holmes thrust both arms out and mimed using two ink balls. “It is a time consuming and obsolete method but certainly a cheaper one for the man who only wishes to print a few copies. No doubt he got an old press somewhere cheap and opted to ink the letters manually instead of buying rollers. The dabbing motion used to create an even coat often causes minute splatters, hence the speckled stains upon his sleeve. 

“I believe you also took note of the stool sitting to the right of where we came in. Yes, Watson, I noticed. You eyed it briefly as a potential stop to sit and rest but immediately discarded it when you perceived that it was stacked with papers. Newspapers, to be exact. Does that suggest nothing to you?”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose as I, once again, allowed my friend’s deductions to override my own initial impressions. “It is curious,” I sighed, “given that a bookshop specializing in popular fiction would be shelving newspapers, let alone so many.” 

“Precisely, Watson. While you commiserated with the fellow about losing a child I managed to catch a glimpse of the top paper. It was The Graphic, a periodical that I know writes its obituaries with the age of the deceased printed before the name. No doubt he has been basing his little stories off of The Graphic’s format and thus unknowingly creates an error when he prints it as The Daily Telegraph.” 

We walked quietly for a time as I contemplated this new information. I had always trusted in Holmes’s methods, having faith that he would observe what was unseen to the rest of us, but even so I was not yet ready to condemn Mr. Eade on what amounted to a handful of circumstantial evidence. 

Holmes, once again demonstrating his uncanny ability to read my thoughts before I myself had even completed them, linked our arms in a comradely fashion. 

“I see, Watson, that you still have doubts.” he said. 

“I freely admit it, Holmes. It is difficult to accept so much when it is drawn from so little.”

“Ah, but it is the little things that are so very important.” His fingers began drumming a beat on my arm, singling to me that he was in deep thought. We continued on this way until, rounding a corner, 221b came into sight. 

“There is,” he said, unlocking the door, “also the matter of Ash.” 

“I have no recollection of seeing Mr. Eade smoke Holmes,” I said, hanging up my hat, “and I doubt that even you can deduce things from ash that is not there.” 

“My dear, Watson!” he chuckled. “I fear I am being lax in articulating myself. I meant ‘Ash’ with a capital ‘a.’ Short for Ashby. It is the name of the child who so clumsily dropped all those books.” He continued chuckling, clearly understanding something I did not. 

“Do you mean to say that you know him, Holmes?” 

“Absolutely.” Having reached the sitting room we settled back into our chairs. Reaching up he snatched the Persian slipper from the mantle piece and only after he had stuffed his pip and begun filling the room with noxious vapors did he speak. “Ash is an unofficial member of the Baker Street Irregulars.”

“Then that is where I have seen the child!” I thought back to the mop of hair and deep brown eyes. “Although I’m afraid I did not recognize him at the time.” 

Holmes shook his head. “I would not have expected you to. He has graced our door only once, during that truly awful attempt at a musical production. Heavens, Watson, my ears.” 

My lips twitched. Holmes was referring to two Christmases past when the Baker Street Irregulars crowded our flat in order to give us a… unique rendition of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.” No doubt they were more interested in being given a bit of change for their trouble rather than spreading the Yuletide cheer though I for one still enjoyed the effort. 

Holmes, however, did not. Or rather, that is what he maintains. 

“If I recall correctly,” I said, “you gave each boy a rather obscene amount of money…”

“Only to get them to leave, Watson!”

“Of course, of course.” 

“The purpose of this reminiscing,” he continued, glaring at me over the top of his pipe, “is to recall to your mind the young boy standing at the front of the group. That is Ashby. As I have said, he is an unofficial member of Scotland Yard’s unofficial division. Although Wiggins has tried to teach him the fine art of being a consulting detective’s eyes and ears I’m afraid the child has always been a bit of a loose canon. From what I have heard he is decent sort of lad but has the tendency to get into trouble, more so than the average street urchin. Wiggins, after a few stake outs in which Ash was either unable to sit still or somehow alerted their target to his presence, has written the child off as a liability.”

“And now you believe he’s changed alliances and is working with Mr. Eade?” I asked. 

“Oh nothing so sinister, Watson. Remember, the street urchin’s life is one governed by monetary gain. All Mr. Eade would have had to do is approach groups of children and offer each the chance to earn a few extra shillings but doing some negligible tasks. Ash, realizing that he would never be employed by me, volunteered for the job. He does a few strange, though seemingly harmless jobs for Mr. Eade and in return he is given wages and the chance to occupy himself in the bookshop. The last thing he would expect, having ‘settled down’ so to speak, is for Mr. Sherlock Holmes to come waltzing through the door. Ha!” 

I nodded. “Hence why he was so startled and dropped the books. But Holmes,” I closed my eyes, trying to picture all the strands of the case as my friend must see them, “what jobs has Mr. Eade had Ash doing?”

Taking a long draw from his pipe, Holmes tipped his head back and blew a languid smoke ring at the ceiling. “Perhaps it would benefit your understanding if I mention that Ash, along with being a troublemaker, is also reputed by Wiggins to be one of the best pick pockets in London.” 

“The papers!” Scrambling in my excitement I very nearly upended my teacup. “That is how the copies Mrs. Eade made have been disappearing from her house and purse. Her husband has told Ash to follow her!”

“Indeed. No doubt Ash has also been the one planting the fake Daily Telegraphs. Early each morning Mr. Eade prints the paper in the privacy of his store and gives a copy to his young assistant. He stays at work while Ashby heads to his home and enters the house. How does he do so? Perhaps Mr. Eade leaves the front door slightly ajar, or has jimmied a window that a young boy could squeeze through. Who knows? Regardless of how it is done Ash sneaks in, makes the switch when no one is looking, and then, taking the original newspaper with him, slinks out.”

“He then spends the rest of the morning shadowing Mrs. Eade to purloin any parts of the newspaper she designs to take with her.”

“Exactly, Watson. Or he stands on a street corner, selling papers to any woman fearful of getting one from her own home.”

I nodded, picturing the scene before me. “And I suppose Mrs. Eade only managed to maintain hold of that one copy because it was the first obituary written. Ash wouldn’t have yet known her habits so intimately and could have easily missed her having it.”

“Precisely.” 

“But, Holmes,” I thought for a moment but then shrugged my shoulders in a resigned fashion. “Why? Mr. Eade has obviously gone through a great deal of trouble. Buying the materials needed, printing a near duplicate of the paper each morning, hiring Ashby to follow his own wife. My dear Holmes, whatever does it all mean?” 

I watched as the hand cradling his pipe tightened knuckle by knuckle, signaling the return of his earlier frustration. 

“That, Watson, is the question still unanswered. We have come to a stand still: we know that Mr. Eade is guilty and in all probability he knows that we know. However, he is also aware that at the moment we can do nothing.”

“Nothing!” I exclaimed.

“Let us imagine for a moment that I were to send a telegram off to our dear friend Lestrade. What would you have me say to him? That this man, despite having broken no laws, should be arrested for doing wrongly by his wife?” He scoffed and tossed his head angrily. “There is not a man in this city – in this world perhaps! – who truly treats his wife as he should.” 

“Nor do wives always give their husbands the respect they deserve.” I murmured.

“Quite.” 

“Well then, what are we to do?”

“We wait.” He turned and threw his legs over the arm of the chair, settling in. “If Mr. Eade is aware that we are at present powerless, and I think he is, then he has no reason to cease his plans, whatever they may be. More information is what we need now Watson. Data, data, data.” 

Resigning myself to a long night I too took up a book and settled into my chair. However, the descriptions of high seas and decadent ships held no interest for me that night. My mind expanded with the image of sinister words upon parchment and a girl’s trembling, fearful hands. 

***

The next morning dawned just as warm but without the brief respite of a summer shower. Holmes had said little the night before, only asking me once if, while seated beside her, I had noticed any signs of violence on Mrs. Eade. When I responded in the negative his face contorted itself into a sneer. “Of course,” he had said, “he is a manipulator of the mind, not the body.” From then on he was silent and I eventually went off to bed, leaving him in a haze of tobacco smoke. 

He was still there the next morning. 

“Good heavens, Holmes!” I coughed, making a swift dart towards the window. “My good man, have you been here all night?” 

“That is obvious, doctor. What an absurd ‘deduction,’ even for you.” He didn’t bother glancing my way but instead threw a dark look at the open window that was currently removing the poisonous fumes. With a curse he threw the pipe aside and swept through the door adjourning our sitting room and his bedroom. The clink of bottles and the soft swipe of clothes hitting the floor could be heard and moments later he returned fully dressed, fairly stalking in his agitation. I paid his grim temperament no mind. I had learned long ago that when dealing with any depression brought on from an incomplete or impervious case, the best thing to do was to let it run its own course without any outside interference. 

And yet, I am still, first and foremost, a physician: “Will you not eat before you go out, Holmes? If my nose does not deceive me, Mrs. Hudson has prepared us croissants.”

“Your nose is as capable in the art of detection as your mind is in the art of deduction.” He said nastily. “It is biscuits.” Seeing my reproachful look he wavered for a moment and then slumped, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I apologize, Watson.”

“No apology is necessary.” I assured him. “However, you can more than make it up to me by joining me for a light breakfast.” But before I’d even completed the request he was shaking his head. 

“I’m afraid not, old man. Food is truly not an interest of mine at the moment. I believe that instead I will head out and see if I cannot find Wiggins, perhaps he has heard something from Ash that will shed some light on this bussi-” 

Holmes was suddenly cut off by the sound of our front door swinging open and just as quickly slamming shut. Before I had the chance to inquire as to who that might be, there were rapid footsteps on the stairs and Mrs. Hudson’s shouts filled the hall. 

“Miss! Miss, you cannot go up there without an appointment! Mr. Holmes may not even be awake!” 

The door opened and there, panting, was a young girl no older than two and twenty. She was rosy of cheek, her skin having taken on an even darker hue due to her exertions; however, this coloring was her only redeeming physical feature. Her face, already long, was exaggerated by the way her mouth hung open in an attempt to regain her breath and her eyes, far from being the lovely aqua-green of Mrs. Eade, were watery and somewhat dulled in her exhaustion. The rest of her was too thin and she possessed an unnatural amount of height for any proper English woman. As she ducked through the doorway I saw that she was nearly as tall as Holmes and thus positively dwarfed Mrs. Hudson as she ran in beside her. 

“Miss, I really must insist that you – ah, Mr. Holmes. I see that you’re awake.” She sniffed. 

“I have yet to be asleep, Mrs. Hudson.” he said, giving her a slight bow. All traces of his earlier foul mood evaporated at the appearance of this woman, like smoke and smog confronted with high winds. “Now, would you perhaps find some tea for our guest? Her presence here is quite welcome, I assure you.” 

Our landlady, never one to bend easily beneath another’s will, gave him a steady look. “Very well, Mr. Holmes,” she said after some time. “I’ll see what I can scrounge up. However, these sorts of things become difficult when one no longer has a complete tea set.” 

Recalling the cup and saucer Mrs. Eade had broken I winced, but Holmes merely shooed Mrs. Hudson to the door. With another sniff – though truly, I believe, a fond one – she left. 

Thus, we were left alone with our guest. 

“Please,” Holmes said, taking her by the wrist and sitting her upon the settee. “Take a moment to relax before you speak. You are Martha I presume?” 

“Sir, how-?” The girl’s eyes positively bulged, giving her face an even sharper, sunken look. But Holmes waved her confusion aside, sinking back into his chair and gesturing for me to do the same. 

“Mrs. Eade mentioned you briefly.” he said. “I am aware that you are her maid and there are of course… other indications.” His eyes jumped to a smear of shoe polish upon her left hand and the peek of a white servant’s uniform beneath her coat. Understanding his silent explanation she nodded thoughtfully. Then however, quick as lightening, she gave herself a brief shake and all at once there was a determined woman sitting before us. 

“You are Sherlock Holmes?” She asked. 

“I am. And this is Doctor Watson, my colleague in all matters.” 

“My mistress told me to come find you.” She chewed upon her lower lip, a most unbecoming habit, and would not meet either of our eyes. 

“There is more.” Holmes said, tapping his fingers thoughtfully. “Why did she not come to see me herself?” 

Martha swallowed and I could see her trying to maintain her professional demeanor, such as it was. “Well, sir, Mrs. Eade told me of the terrible joke being played on her just last night, the one involving the obituaries. She has always been… delicate, my mistress, but recently I fear…” 

“That her health has declined to a less than satisfactory degree in matters of the mind?” I suggested. 

She tensed but nodded. “Precisely, Dr. Watson. She has been excitable ever since the miscarriage but now the things she tells me... so fanciful! She made me promise, swearing on my dear mother’s grave, that if she ever gave me a message for Mr. Sherlock Holmes I must take it to him immediately, post haste. This morning there was no message but she did tell me to find you.” She smoothed her skirts with an unsteady hand. “She was unable to come here herself, sir because she is gone!”

“Gone?” Holmes snapped. “Gone where?” 

“I do not know, sir. All of it – it happened so fast. Upon waking she took her morning tea and paper, as is her usual custom, and I began laying out a dress for her. She ignored the tea, sir, seemed only interested in the paper, but as soon as she opened it she went as white as her sheets! I asked her what was wrong but she didn’t answer, just asked me for a pair of scissors and then immediately changed her mind and asked for paper and pen instead. She wanted to save something from the paper, though why she’d bother writing it out instead of cutting it I certainly don’t know.” 

“Perhaps because the papers themselves are purloined soon after they’re read.” I murmured. 

“And a handwritten note is both less conspicuous and more easily concealed.” Holmes nodded. “Martha – apologies, may I call you Martha? Thank you – do continue if you would.” 

“Well, sir, she finished writing whatever it was that interested her and tucked it away in the sleeve of her dressing gown. I was just about to suggest her getting dressed when Mr. Eade came striding in with two other gentlemen. Well, I was most shocked, sir, Mr. Eade is always down at his shop that time of day and lately he’s been spending even more time there, but here he was, waltzing into his lady’s bedroom. I tired to tell him that she wasn’t yet dressed-”

“Wait!” Holmes held up a hand. “You say that it was her room? And that she was normally dressed before he saw her? Do you mean to imply that they’ve been sleeping separately?”

“Oh well…” She blushed, the natural rouge spreading high on her cheeks. “It isn’t proper for me to be speaking about my employers in such a way….”

“But the facts are necessary.” He flapped his hand at her in an impatient manner. 

“Well then, yes, sir. I’ve been with them for some years, ever since I was a girl, and I never saw them sleep in the same room before. Not for a night. Things got worse after poor Mrs. Eade’s miscarriage though. Mr. Eade rarely even speaks with her... 

“Yes, yes and the two men? Who were they? Speak, child!” 

“I don’t know, sir. One was quite large and I think the other was a medical man, at least, I think Mr. Eade called him ‘doctor.’ And then…” She worried her lip again, eyes darting across the floor. “Everything just happened so quickly, sir. They informed Mrs. Eade that she’d have to come with them and I was told to prepare her a bag. She tried to talk to them, said something about none of this being necessary, but when she refused to come the bigger man went up and just plucked her right off the bed! Highly indecent of him I think, to treat a lady in such a manner but – oh yes, yes. Well, during the struggle the note Mrs. Eade had written fell to the floor. The doctor fellow took it up, went white in the face just like my mistress had earlier, and said to Mr. Eade: “You were right, sir. It looks as if we got here just in time.”

“You’re sure those were his exact words?”

“Yes sir. I remember because Mr. Eade looked all satisfied like, very strange I thought, given the circumstances.”

“And the paper? The newspaper, what happened to it?”

She puzzled over this a moment before her eyes popped once more in surprise. “Why, Mr. Eade threw it in the fire! I remember now sir, just as they were dragging my poor mistress out he casually picked it up and disposed of it. Now, what do you think he did that for?” she asked. 

Holmes waved her off. “What happened after that?” he demanded. “Where did they go?” 

“Oh I’ve told you, sir, I don’t know. They just bundled her into a cab and left. But Mrs. Eade was screaming at them, sir, a truly horrific sound, and right before they got her in she turned back to me and said to find you.” She straightened up, re-adopting her formally determined air. “I may only be a maid and I may not understand what’s happening to Mrs. Eade but I’ve been with her a long time, sir and when she tells me to do something, I do it, no matter how strange it may seem. She said ‘find Sherlock Holmes,’ sir, and here I am.” 

“And you have indeed done a remarkable job.” Holmes said, calming for a moment; showing a rare bit of admiration. “Now, is there anything else that you can think of that may be significant? Anything at all?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you must leave. We must both leave.”

“Sir?” 

“Come!” Standing he pulled the girl to her feet and practically shoved her towards the door. Gesturing for me to follow the three of us thundered down the stairs where Holmes tossed me my walking stick and donned his own hat. 

“Martha, please return to your residence and wait there for your mistress. With a great deal of logic and a bit of luck I will have her home by nightfall. You may leave now.” He stepped out onto the curb, hailing a two seater. The maid looked as if she wanted to question him further but after a moment wisely closed her mouth. I tipped my hat to her, smiling in an attempt to apologize for my friend’s briskness, and with one last curious look she started off down Baker Street. 

The cab Holmes had procured came into view and before the horses had even settled he jumped inside, pulled me in behind him. 

“Cabbie!” he barked, pounding on the roof with his cane. “I will triple your fare if you can get us to the Bow Street Magistrates’ Court within the hour.” 

The horses were lashed and with a force that threw us both against the back of our seats, we were off. 

***

“Holmes!” I shouted over the roar of the cab. “What reason could there possibly be for us going to the court house?” 

Bracing himself with both hands my friend looked up and threw me a grim smile. “Mr. Eade is creative, Watson, no doubt about it, but he didn’t account for his wife coming to me! When he realized that, far from keeping such strange circumstances a secret, she was revealing them, he decided to play on that knowledge and use it to his advantage.”

I closed my eyes, trying to follow his reasoning. “I do not understand.” 

“Ah, I am surprised at you, Doctor. You were right from the start: this is a case much more suited to you than me. The evidence presented here is not found in tobacco ash and distinctive footprints but rather in the psychology of the individual.” He threw his head back, resting it against the bouncing seat of the cab. “Think, Watson. Explore the mind of Mr. Eade. Does he strike you as a violent man?”

“Certainly not.” I said. “You will recall I was much surprised when you named him our culprit.”

“Indeed. It is true he would never cause the crash of a hansom, or release a wild animal, nor do any of the other violent acts that he depicted in his obituaries. What then, is his motivation for giving them to his wife?”

I thought back to the Mrs. Eade’s fainting spell and her overall nervous agitation. “Why, he must, for some reason, wish to cause her mental distress.”

“Precisely, Watson. If he wished to harm her physically why go through such an elaborate scheme to do so? Why wait so long? And why involve another, our dear friend, little Ash? No, no, no, he wished to hurt her emotionally, mentally, and for a long time I was lost as to why.” 

“But now you know?”

He nodded slowly. “Martha provided the final piece of the puzzle. You will recall that she claimed they had not slept in the same bed for years, and that their relationship had grown colder after the miscarriage? A significant detail, that. I now had the motivation for his actions: he had ceased to love her, a terrible, though not uncommon, occurrence. The only remaining question then was why torment her in such a fashion? Was it purely for vindictive pleasure? No, I believe I mentioned before that the time and effort Mr. Eade had put into this plot suggests that he expects some specific result.” He leaned forward, eager to present the rest of his narrative. “And then Martha mentioned the note. The final note, Watson! Mr. Eade knew that his wife had been copying down the obituaries and for this last one he counted on it. What do you think this one said?”

“I’m certain I have no idea.” 

“Think back. She’s a fragile girl and his actions have put her more on edge. No one believes her fanciful stories about disappearing obituaries so he knows she’ll copy this one down as proof, as she’d attempted to do with the others. She places the note on her person and the doctor who finds it there exclaims that they ‘got here just in time.’ Watson, those obituaries showed her dying in every manner from accidents to deliberate arson. What is the one way in which she hasn’t died?”

Holmes was still throwing out hints but I did not hear them, the truth had clicked moments before. 

“Good heavens,” I interrupted. “suicide! The last note must have detailed her taking her own life.” 

“Yes, Watson, yes! Mr. Eade culminates his plan but bringing a doctor into the room right when he knew there’d be a note on her person – in her own hand – that discusses her suicide. So then tell me, my dear Boswell, this man who has ceased to love his wife – what does he plan to do?”

I sat back and allowed the disgust I was feeling to fully transform my face. 

“He means to have the poor girl committed.” 

***

Having explained the most prominent facts I will not bore the reader with a detailed account of the following events. Needless to say we arrived at the courthouse in record time – for which our cabbie was paid no small fee – and were able to halt the proceedings of Mrs. Eade vs. the city of London. Mr. Eade, just as Holmes had predicted, was attempting to have his wife committed to Bedlam on the grounds that she had been mentally unstable ever since the death of their unborn child and had lately been hallucinating that The Daily Telegraph was producing obituaries referencing her death. This obsession, he said, culminated in her writing an obituary of her own in which she referenced taking her own life. 

I am sorry to say that in those days this was considered sufficient ‘evidence’ for a man to institutionalize his wife, often permanently. As Holmes had said, it was only with a great deal of logic and a bit of luck that we managed to get the case dropped. The logic was employed through Holmes’s numerous deductions, all of which detailed how Mr. Eade had been the one to write those obituaries. And our luck came in the form of the magistrate himself, as Judge Gifford had worked with Holmes before and had nothing but the deepest respect for him. As promised, by nightfall Mrs. Eade was back home with Martha – though only after a heartfelt and tearful ‘thank you’ to us both – and Mr. Eade was heading to a local correctional facility for falsifying evidence. 

“But, Holmes,” I asked later that night when we were both wrapped in dressing gowns before the fire. “Mr. Eade will be released after a few months at most. What will happen to Mrs. Eade then?”

He shrugged, his thin shoulders falling languidly. “I suspect that they will live out the rest of their lives in a mutual, miserable existence. He will continue to resent her, both for her continued presence and the failure of his plan, and she will remain in a state of nervous agitation. Although,” he tapped his lips thoughtfully, “that is still preferable to years spent in Bedlam.” 

“Holmes!”

“Do you disagree?” 

“Certainly not.” I huffed. “But is that the best solution you can come up with? A life of unhappiness for them both? What of justice!” 

“Justice, Watson?” He chuckled humorlessly. “What justice do you think a woman can gain in this situation? She is dashed lucky she’s not strapped to a bed and being subdued daily with chloroform.”

“Well what of divorce then? Surely she can at least attempt to get away from this monster?” 

But Holmes was shaking his head. “The chances of her obtaining a divorce, even after all that has occurred, is slim to none. Furthermore, Mr. Eade will fight her for all he’s worth. He may not wish to live with her but he also wouldn’t want to give up the money she provides him through the marriage. No, I fear the future does not bode well for these two.” Slipping a hand into his pocket he produced a folded bit of paper. “It is the last obituary.” he murmured, handing it to me. “A copy detailed from Mrs. Eade’s testimony. I reclaimed it from Judge Gifford shortly after the proceedings were finished.” 

Unfolding it carefully I read: 

In her twenty-fourth year, Mrs. EADE formerly KELLNER, Honorary Secretary of the Governesses’ Benevolent Institution. Took her own life the 15th of August, 1889. 

“A sickening case, Holmes.” 

“Indeed, Watson.” 

I refolded the paper and with a flick of my wrist, tossed the wretched thing in the fire.


End file.
